Late Night Date Night
by Insanely Me
Summary: Alex Rider, teen spy extraordinaire, is most definitely not sitting alone on his couch on a Friday night. He's absolutely certain that there's another way to phrase it. (Rated K for incredibly mild language. Blink and you'll miss it.)


**AN: I'm back (after a ridiculous 2 year hiatus), and am as ready as ever! I expect to be very rusty, but have a few ideas in my head for some Alex Rider stories, especially two crossovers that I'm going to try to be working on for the remainder of the summer. I appreciate constructive criticism, and I would love any prompts you guys have for any stories you would like to be written. Enjoy this little scribble!**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Alex Rider series, nor do I think anyone would wish that I would. Yalex would be canon and everything would be sex and angst.**

9 o'clock on a bloody Friday night, and where was he? Out clubbing? Spending time with a friend? Catching up on some much needed sleep?

No.

The 17 year old boy was doing none of these things. He was, instead, nursing a cup of god awful tea and a terrible headache (thanks to a particularly nasty blow to the back of the head that Alex had sustained on his last mission) on his decidedly ugly-but-practical couch, an aesthetic leaning he had picked up from his late uncle (a theme that was spread throughout the whole of his London apartment).

Listless, hot, and too drained to watch any of the World Cup, he scrolled through the other programs on the telly, desperate to find something to distract his wandering mind from the thoughts of his last mission.

Doctor Who? _Too confusing._

Black Mirror? _Too in-depth._

The History of James Bond? _You have got to be kidding._

Giving up on visual stimulation, Alex managed to pull himself up, wincing as he accidentally put too much pressure on his shoulder. The pain was sharp and direct, and his heart rate quickened in association as the familiar thrill of adrenaline tingled along his spine.

But now was neither the time nor the place for that sick twisting of his gut and the racing of his mind. Now was the time (and place) of rest and recovery he thought to himself as he limped towards his bookshelf.

The Art of War. _He knew the suggested techniques by heart._

Shaken, Not Stirred: The Art of the Martini. _Believe him, he knew a little too well about the art of the martini (and possibly, alcohol in general). _

Spycatcher. _Bloody hell._

Alex made his way carefully back to his sofa and threw himself onto it in the way that only teenaged boys know how to do: angst heavily apparent in every akimboed limb.

_So this is it. _He thought to himself. _This is how it's going to end. Not with a bang, but with a sigh of irrepressibly boredom. 17 years old and dying because of the lack of a social life._

But just as he was resigning himself to his untimely demise, his phone began vibrating on the shaky glass top of the coffee table he had picked up one day at a charity shop. One that, come to think of it, probably wasn't worth any of the 15 pounds that he had paid for it.

Filled with a slight trepidation (surely "The Bank" wouldn't be calling so soon after his last mission?), he raised himself to a seated posistion, mindful this time of his shoulder. He snatched the phone and cautiously looked for the number.

** BLOCKED NUMBER **read the screen, and Alex relaxed. It was highly unlikely that MI6 would ever block their own number. No, they were far too pompous for that.

He tapped the answer button and pulled the device up to his ear. However, before he could say hello, a voice began talking.

A rather deep voice. One that, to someone who hadn't hear it before, would almost seem accent-less.

_**I will be at the Ritz in London the remainder of the evening **_кошечка_**. I wish for you to join me. When you com**__**e to the lobby, tell them you are there to meet Yasha. I will see you soon,**_**любовь моя**_**.**_

And with that, the line went dead.

But Alex was too preoccupied to be affronted by the lack of proper phone etiquette. He was pulling on his shoes, keys already in his pocket and jacket laid besides him, and far too busy with his thoughts to worry about that.

_I guess I can't count myself out of the game just yet. _

And with that thought in mind, Alex Rider, 17 year old spy with a _very_ active social and sex life (_thank you very much)_, was on his way.

END NOTES: **This was not at all what I was expecting. But I think I like it anyway? Simple and rudimentary in the extreme, but a bit sweet nonetheless. Would anyone be interested in a little continuation of this that I might have in mind? Thanks for reading, and I would love for you to take a moment and give me a review! xoxo**

_**Russian Phrases**_

**кошечка****: pussycat**

**любовь моя: my love**

**And on the AR wiki, it says that when Yassen was younger he went by the name Yasha. So interpret as you will. I like to think it's because Alex brings out the inner playfulness of him. **


End file.
